


Rannoch Rising

by Elycien



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Gen, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elycien/pseuds/Elycien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three hundred years ago, the quarians lost their freedom as well as their homeworld. Now they are seen as little more than property, a legal slave race throughout Council space.</p>
<p>Zaal'Koris, resigned to the life of a slave, has only ever wanted to protect his people. Han'Gerrel, desperate to be free, has not yet given up on fighting back.</p>
<p>(This is a collection of ficlets and oneshots set in the same continuity, not necessarily posted in chronological order.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rannoch Rising

The sight of Octavian Torvas in the quarian slave quarters was never a good sign. Even when he needed one of them, the turian did not typically come in person. That he was here now - Zaal’Koris did not want to think about what that might mean for them, though he had a feeling that he already knew. The refinery work had not been going smoothly; a fire had damaged the equipment at the iridium refinery and several quarians had been badly injured. With their workforce reduced, the repairs were slow going. Octavian was not a patient man, but he could sometimes be reasonable, and Koris had hoped that he would see reason on this. But if he was here, _now_...

The one good thing about this situation was that Koris had seen him before he encountered any of the other slaves. If he was careful, perhaps he could prevent Octavian taking out his frustration on some of the younger quarians working at the refinery - or, worse, the ones who were still recovering from the fire. He hurried to meet his master, greeting the turian with a deep, respectful bow before straightening back up and clasping his hands behind his back. 

“Master,” he said. “How may I be of service?”

This display didn’t appear to soothe Octavian’s mood as much as Koris had hoped. He twitched his mandibles irritably. “The iridium refinery is still at half capacity,” he said. “I thought I had made my orders clear.”

Koris swallowed. Impatience, it seemed, had won over reason this time. “Sir, it may be difficult. The damage is extensive and many of the younger workers have no experience with making such delicate repairs. If you might allow us an additional day, or even two--”

“Are you refusing to finish the repairs on time?” Octavian said quietly.

“It... simply might not be possible, Master,” Zaal’Koris said, striving to keep his voice calm and his posture respectful, not letting his fury bubble up to the surface. “There isn’t enough time. I- I deeply apologize, but--”

Without warning, Octavian hit him, hard enough that the quarian swayed and fought to keep standing. Even with the protection of his helmet, it hurt; without it the blow would probably have knocked him out. He straightened again and looked back at his master, and the turian hit him again, harder, sending Koris sprawling to the ground.

He kicked Koris’s prone form as the quarian started struggling back up again; Koris recognized this for what it was and lay still, not resisting as the turian landed several more vicious blows. His suit did little to shield him from the impacts but at least it wasn’t compromised. This was only a warning. Koris had suffered worse beatings.

Octavian crouched down in front of the quarian while he was still winded from a solid kick to the gut. Gasping, Koris couldn’t quite breathe, let alone speak, as the turian grabbed his helmet and forced his head up to make eye contact. The man’s gloved talons scraped lightly against the air supply tubes on the underside of Koris’s helmet, a subtle and pointed threat. “Do I need to remind you of your place, quarian?” he said softly. “There are those who’d have you killed for the kind of disrespect you just showed me... but I’m not that kind of man.”

He paused, clearly expecting some response. “Yes, Master,” Koris gasped out. “Thank you.”

“I decide what my workers can and cannot do,” Octavian said. “You follow my orders. I will not be questioned by a _filthy suit-rat._ ” There was venom in his voice as he spat out the words. Koris saw the turian’s eyes flash and knew he was seeing his master at his most dangerous.

“I’m sorry,” Koris said quickly. Damned turians, so touchy about respect and the social order.

Octavian tilted his head. “Did I say you could address me as an equal?” he said, deadly calm.

“I… I apologize, Master.”

“Better.” Octavian let Koris’s head drop and stood up. Koris knew better than to try to rise while his master was still speaking to him, so he stayed where he was. The bastard probably didn’t think quarians should even be allowed to stand upright. “I expect the work finished by tomorrow, quarian,” he said. “Longer and I’ll start cutting rations, you understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good.”

He left. Koris waited until the turian had exited the slave quarters before struggling back to his feet. Damn it, he was shaking. Octavian must’ve hit him harder than he thought. At least there were no broken bones. Koris was already starting to ache, but his medicine rations didn’t include painkillers - even if they did, he’d used up this month’s allotment trying to work during an illness two weeks ago. He’d just have to endure it the way he endured everything else.

“Koris.” Someone’s hand touched his shoulder and Koris turned with surprising speed, striking the other man’s arm away from him.

“Don’t touch me,” Koris snarled, glaring. Infuriatingly, Han’Gerrel didn’t rise to the bait of his anger, just crossed his arms and watched him.

“I saw how hard he hit you,” Gerrel said, calm and casual. “You should get your helmet checked.”

“It’s fine,” Koris snapped. “Since when were you so concerned about my well-being?”

“If you die, who else will grovel to Octavian like that?” Gerrel said lightly.

Koris very nearly hit him right there. Instead he grabbed the front of the other man’s suit, yanking him forward, aware of and hating the way his hands were still shaking. “I do what I must to protect my people,” he hissed. “If the price is my dignity, then so be it. I don’t expect _you_ to understand.”

Gerrel didn’t fight back. His eyes behind the visor were unusually grim. “I know,” he said quietly. He was _concerned,_ Koris realized, or whatever passed for it with him. Koris let go of him, stepping back with a noise of disgust. He could think of few things he wanted less than Gerrel’s pity.

“Telia’s got painkillers,” Gerrel said simply as he turned to leave. “You might want to go see her. You’ve got a long night ahead of you.”


End file.
